


When It Lands

by persyki



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Sambucky centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persyki/pseuds/persyki
Summary: Sam and Bucky find solidarity within a series of cooking endeavors in the absence of their other two Avenger roommates.





	When It Lands

**Author's Note:**

> endgame didnt happen and neither did iw  
> title from "when it lands" by rainbow kitten surprise, a major sambucky song

Mid-morning sunlight filters through the drawn curtains into the living room. Steve and Natasha jolted awake a few hours earlier to make their appearances in saving the world yet again; apparently, that task that could be accomplished without the help of their other two… Well, roommates.

Sam isn’t happy about being benched, and has spent the time since their departure in sulking silence. He has a row of stitches in his side, and so what? He could still operate a damn quinjet if he wanted to. His eyes rest on a half-empty cup of cold coffee and he directs all of his misplaced irritation on that poor, innocent, lipstick-stained mug.

“It’s like she doesn't know what breakfast is,” he mutters. “A goddamn super-spy, genius government operative, yet she can’t use anything except the fucking coffee maker.”

Bucky glances up at him from his spot on the couch, curled under a blanket with a Shakespearean novel. It might be _Hamlet,_  but Sam doesn't care enough to find out. If anyone looks entirely content to be where they are in that specific moment, it’s Barnes. “I don’t think either of them know how to cook anything, really.”

“Doesn’t this bother you?”

“Staying home, or their inabilities to take care of the most basic necessities? Either way, no.”

Sam sneers at being seen through. “Well, I don’t enjoy being treated like a house-sitter. Or a live-in chef. For god’s sake, neither of them will put any effort into food unless it’s takeout, or placed directly in front of them.”

“We’re all a little dysfunctional,” Bucky stares at Sam through half-closed lashes, and somehow, slowly, he feels the fight leave his body. At least one of them seems to be having a good morning; for Bucky, a rare occurrence, so Sam shifts to reluctantly mirror his relaxed attitude as the man continues speaking. “They’ll be fine out there, Wilson. They’re big kids.”

“Don’t act like it around us, though.”

“It’s safe here, isn’t it? They feel comfortable enough to do that. Steve used to turn into the whiniest shit when he was sick. I had to get creative about making soup with just four ingredients.”

“Don’t tell me you had to be the housewife for our star-spangled disaster.” Sam carefully doesn't point out the fact that Bucky is coming close to quoting his own therapist. Instead, he makes a sudden joyful noise and jumps up to dart to the kitchen. “Oh, this is golden. Please, for god’s sake, agree to that Time’s interview only to throw this little fact to the hungry, hungry historians. Steve Rogers, the helpless anemic in the forties, and his dedicated stay-at-home illegally homosexual spouse, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky considers the distance at which he’d have to throw a couch cushion to hit Sam’s head, and comes to a thrilling conclusion of “way too far to deserve that much effort.” He’s comfortable enough on his spot on the couch, so he calls back. “Get your textbook facts right, bird-brain. I was working two jobs to keep that moron alive, I ain’t got the time to sit at home and look pretty. I did, in fact, have to cook though. I think.”

Sam pokes his head back into the living room for a moment. “Was he as helpless as he is now? I’ve never seen him make anything besides plain oatmeal.”

“I don’t remember _that_ much. Decades of brain damage, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep using that as an excuse, old man.”

Sam hides back in the kitchen doorway to avoid the aforementioned couch cushion flying past him. “You remember any of your wartime recipes? At all?” He peeks back in just in time to see Bucky scrunch his nose in discomfort.

A beat of silence passes before the kitchen drawers bang open and closed.

“Well, get your ass in here, honey. My mama makes a mean peach cobbler, and I’m a damn good student _and_  an amazing teacher. Also, a stress baker. You know how to use a twenty-first century measuring spoon?”

* * *

“If he were to flip at a hundred percent capacity, the universe would be annihilated.” Sam does his best impression of an overly enthusiastic announcer as Bucky dramatically flexes his metal arm with a spatula. “He can flip those pancakes in his sleep!”

“That’s the least of your concerns if I start sleepwalking,” Bucky snarks back. Steve throws his head back to bark out a hoarse laugh from where he’s perched on a bar stool beside a sleepy Natasha.

“This is the kind of treatment I get for trying to be nice.” Sam has to duck to avoid a blueberry smacking him straight in the face. “None of you appreciate the fact that I am the funniest son of a bitch in this room.”

“And you aren’t appreciating James’ unironic pancake skills.” Nat says through a mouth full of syrup and batter. “This is good.”

“You are _so_ graceful,” Steve snickers again, reaching over to wipe off the trail of maple syrup in the corner of her mouth. “But she’s right, this is great. The coffee too. You did good today, Buck. Sam might have to step up his game if he wants to keep his title as the best cook in the house.”

Sam flings a towel at Steve’s bedhead and pretends really hard not to be affected by the delighted flush that spreads down Bucky’s neck.

* * *

“I swear they are doing this on purpose.” Sam ties to set the note in his hand on fire with just his glare. “Do they realize we’re not helpless? They’ve fought beside us before.”

“Maybe that’s the thing,” Bucky’s hair brushes against the other man’s neck from where he leans over to read the quick goodbye note in Steve’s scrawl. “They’ve lost us in battle before. They’re still not over the whole… Snap thing, y’know.”

The only response he gets is annoyed silence.

Bucky sighs. “Want to show me how to make sugar cookies?”

* * *

“I like having a task,” Bucky pipes up over the compassionate clacking of kitchen utensils.

Sam makes a neutral noise to indicate that he’s listening. He’s bent over a dozen tiny ramekins; they’re making créme brûlée for dessert that night, and his sous chef seems entirely too excited about getting his hands on a hand-held version of a flamethrower.

“I don’t know if it’s a Hydra thing,” Bucky continues after a short pause. His eyes are firmly glued to a spot on Sam’s cheek, where a smudge of cream is sitting on top of his stubble. Bucky has to exercise a significant amount of self control not to reach over and wipe it off. With his tongue.

He shakes himself back into present moment. “I don’t entirely remember the last time I wasn’t awake for a specific reason, before now. Way back, it was to scrape enough money together to keep the family afloat. Then, afford Steve’s medication. In the army it was to just… Survive. With _them_ , I was never out of the goddamn human fridge unless they had a use for me.” He halts, suddenly feeling ridiculous for saying it all out loud. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do unless I’ve got a list of instructions to follow, y’know.”

Sam pauses for a few beats, not looking up. Bucky is grateful not to have any more direct attention in the moment, but crosses mismatched arms over his chest defensively, just in case.

“A lot of vets feel like that after the Army.” Sam finally speaks. “You’ve got some other shit in the mix too, doesn’t make it any easier. We’re all used to wake up to follow orders and survive every single day. It’s strange to find a new routine that doesn’t follow that.” He scoots over to gently bump his hip against Bucky leaning on the kitchen counter. “Part of the reason why I like kitchen therapy. Cooking gives you a reasonable set of instructions and just enough wiggle room not to catastrophize messing up.”

“You sound like my damn therapist.” Bucky shoves him back lightly. “Next thing I know you’re gonna psychoanalyze me with your dick in my mouth.”

“Yeah, right, you’d be lucky to get a taste of this, dough boy.” Sam sticks his tongue out. After a second of hesitation, he licks his finger and wipes the drool across Bucky's indignant facial expression.

Three seconds later Steve and Natasha witness a loudly cackling blur racing past them through the living room, followed by a murderous super soldier, armed with a tiny flame gun and a tray of unfinished créme brûlée’s.

* * *

Natasha and Steve have been missing on a mission for a week.

No texts, no calls, no extra intel.

Sam is sitting with his back to Bucky’s bedroom door, reading the abandoned Shakespeare out loud for him to hear. It’s been almost a day since Barnes went rigid with irrational panic in the middle of scrambling eggs, and nearly two days since he stayed clear headed from Soldier-mode dissociation. Sam inhales deeply and thumps his head against the locked door. He can’t decide if this would be easier or harder with Steve and Natasha there.

That evening Barnes, tired and rigid, slinks into the living room to hide his face in Sam’s knees. In return, he sighs and scoots his untouched cup of chili hot chocolate towards the limp man on the floor.

* * *

All four heroes are in the living room after a long day of quietly co-existing; two of them caught a few days off from Avenger-ing for much needed downtime and recovery. Natasha is sprawled across the softest arm-chair in the room, staring at the TV screen with a rerun of a cheesy roommate sitcom; Sam is cross-legged on the floor beside her flipping through a file of documents. Steve is half-asleep, leaning on the arm of the couch for support.

Bucky comes back from the kitchen, balancing four full cups of tea with mock-concentration. He reaches down to bump the first cup against Wilson’s arm, who grabs it without looking. “God, I love you.”

Everyone in the room goes still for a long second, the sitcom chatter filling up the complete silence before Bucky replies, “You too, sweetheart.”

He moves to place Natasha’s mug on her stomach, then hands Steve his, accompanied with a chaste kiss on the forehead.

“I love all of you too.”

“Huh,” Steve takes a careful sip from his cup. “I expected all of this to be way harder.”

* * *

Sam shuffles into the kitchen, desperately rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Without asking, he is handed a full cup of coffee, light on the milk, two sugars.

In a couple of minutes he is awake enough to register that he’s sitting on the edge of the table, watching Bucky move around their messy kitchen with a ladle covered in batter clenched between his teeth. He’s not much more coherent than Sam himself, mumbling a pained noise when he burns himself on the pan while flipping a crepe.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows before looking down at his apron and back at Sam. He puts the ladle back into the bowl and does a sarcastic half-turn, imitating a very sleepy, very blurry runway model. “Nat thought it would be a funny parting gift, so now I have to use this out of sheer spite.” Sam watches him turn back to the pan.

A few minutes later Natasha’s phone dings with a photo of Sam and Bucky’s smiling faces squished together in a semblance of a kiss, crepes forgotten, and Bucky’s “Kiss The Cook” apron clenched in Sam’s fist.

**Author's Note:**

> just some feverish stuff i wrote while sick, no beta, all mistakes are my own. thank u! sambucky is the only thing that matters


End file.
